


Starlight and Silver Fields

by timbrene



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 12:56:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3937621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timbrene/pseuds/timbrene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor clears his head after the Arbor Wilds, and finds himself with complicating company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starlight and Silver Fields

**Author's Note:**

> It turns out the Inquisitor's tower doesn't look exactly how the picture I was using for reference made it seem, so for now, let's pretend the roof is a lot lower and flatter than it actually is.

He can’t scrape the voices from his head.

They’re not loud, really, though that seems to be the only mercy he’s been given. As far as voices go, they’re only whispers. More than once he’s nearly fallen, having had to blame the dizzy spell on their lack of rest on the way back from the Wilds. It’s kept them off him so far, though Dorian and Cassandra have each cast him more than a few worried glances since. Still, they have not pressed. Good news for the headache that’s beginning to develop.

Nonetheless, his head is throbbing by the time they reach Skyhold again, and he’s had to stave off the urge to tie something about his forehead to counter the pressure. But, he reminds himself, he’s made it this far. Just a quick review with Cullen and a check of the grounds, and no one else will need him for a while. If he can manage all that without being sick all over one of his agents, he’ll consider that a success for the day.

When the door closes behind him, it’s all he can do not to slump against it and let himself slide to the floor. The birds in the rafters squawk curiously at him from their perch, and he gives them a grunt (half in greeting, half in reproach) as he passes.

And then, because that would have been far too simple, he finds he cannot sleep.

The noise of the day had been painful, but now that it’s gone, blocked out by windows and doors and walls, everything feels wrong. Instead he’s left with the deafening, padded silence of a closed-off room that offers no escape from the voices in his head.

After one hour of miserable tossing and turning, he lets out half a sob and rolls over to bury his face in his pillow and press his hands to his head. After two, he kicks the blankets to the floor against a feverish sweat. After three, when his supper begins to sit heavy and churning in his stomach, he surrenders.

With a long breath, he sits up, face in his hands, and stays as still as he can. This will pass. It will pass because he is not the first to hear the whispers, _cannot_ be, and the others have survived before him. He may not be as wise as they, but he is of elvhen blood whether the sentinels accept him as theirs or not, and he will endure. He must weather the storm now, and then it will pass.

But until then, he resolves as he lets his hands fall and gets gingerly to his feet, he cannot stay in this room with its fuzzy, muffled silence a second longer.

The cool air shocks him when he throws the door to the balcony wide, and he gulps in several unwieldy breaths before he can move again. The sound of the wind rushes against his ears like water over a burn.

It’s not quite nighttime yet - he had retired in the late afternoon citing exhaustion from their trip, which while not entirely forthright, was not a lie. It means that Skyhold is still very much alive. The shouts of the new recruits training in the yard below wash against the quiet and take its edge, and Lavellan allows himself to stand still there in the doorway as the outside sounds wash over him for several moments before moving.

After a foray back inside to retrieve a light cloak, Lavellan walks to the end of the balcony and turns to face the room. He’s done this before, though most of the time with a much clearer head. Still, he can generally rely on his muscle memory if nothing else, and he can hardly go back inside now.

His palms slap against the cool stone of the railing, and he takes a moment to steady himself there. Then, gingerly, he removes one and replaces it with his foot. He takes a breath. This has always been the tricky part. With a quiet grunt of effort, he pushes himself upwards, second foot joining the first, hands snapping upwards to latch onto the top of the ledge just beneath the rooftop. He takes another moment, another chilly breath, then shifts his weight to his arms and heaves up.

Regardless of his mental clutter, he’s still physically sound enough. His hands catch the grooves in the rooftop with the same surety they always have, and he pulls himself up with only the barest protest from his muscles.

The wind hits him stronger up here, he realizes as he settles in against the slope. That’s good. He needs the noise. The whispers are still there, still needling him, but the outside sounds do more than a little to distract from them.

He closes his eyes and lets the cool air fill his lungs to drive away the sickly warmth. The worst will pass. It will. And until then, he will bear it.

“Inquisitor?”

His eyes flick open. That particular voice is neither a whisper nor in his head. Had he given Dorian a key? He supposes he must have, if he’s managed to get into his quarters without being let in. He can’t quite remember. Regardless, much as he cares for the man, conversation is just about the last thing he wants to attempt right now. He pulls in a breath as quietly as he can manage, flattens himself against the rooftop, and lies as still as he can. Dorian will probably assume he’s gone to make the rounds again, or to see to the troops as they trickle back into the keep. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary, and after all, it’s not as though he knows he’s up here.

“Mahanon, I know you’re up there.”

Ah.

He un-flattens, lets out the breath he’d been holding, and forces himself to sit up. Dorian is watching him from the balcony, arms crossed over his chest, looking unimpressed.

“Hi,” Lavellan tries weakly.

“Evening,” Dorian returns flatly.

This isn’t going to be easy, then. Not that it ever is with him.

“How did you know I was-”

“Climbing all over your tower like a mad squirrel? Sera. Also, half the people wandering the courtyard on my way here.”

“Hmm.” Now that it’s been pointed out, he can see how sitting on the roof of the tallest tower in an already otherwise very tall fortress could be a tiny bit conspicuous.

“Any explanation, or would you prefer I guess?” Dorian prompts, shaking him from his thoughts.

Lavellan shifts uncomfortably, keeping the fingers on one hand pressed against his temple where his head throbs the worst.

“I wanted some time to myself.” Perhaps he sounds a bit more reproachful than he had intended, but it’s difficult to summon any measure of guilt at the moment. “Do I have to explain that?

And there’s the guilt, after all. Even as good as he is at pretending he doesn’t have emotions, Dorian looks as though he’s been slapped. Lavellan looks away. The shingles by his left foot suddenly seem very interesting.

“Look, I appreciate the concern, but I didn’t ask you to come check on me.” He tries to keep the irritation from his voice, but he can tell some bleeds through nonetheless. “This has been a long day, and I’d like to be alone.”

“I’ll… show myself out, then.”

Elgar’nan, why can’t this be simple?

“Wait.” Lavellan closes his eyes, heaves a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. This is really and truly the last thing he needs, but… “If you’re going to stay, you’re going to have to come up.”

Dorian stares at him blankly.

“You can’t be serious,” he says at last.

“Up or out,” Lavellan repeats.

“How do you expect-”

Before he can finish the question, Lavellan slides to the edge of the roof and anchors himself in the grooves between the shingles, then offers a hand.

“Take my hand and get on the railing. I’ll pull you up.”

Dorian gawks at him as though he’s just suggested they attempt an elaborate ballet on the edge of the tower. In fairness, to him, it’s probably about the same level of horror. The man has never been fond of heights of any measure. Which, in hindsight, probably means it’s a bit unkind of Lavellan to demand this of him.

“I won’t let you fall,” he adds with less bite. “I promise.”

He’s honestly a bit surprised when Dorian does as he’s told. He’s less graceful than he could be in the climbing and he mutters what Lavellan is certain must be a collection of the most shockingly descriptive words in the Tevene language under his breath all the while, but he’s taller than the elf, and can reach the roof with relative ease once he’s made it as far as the railing. Lavellan hauls him up the rest of the way once he’s mostly there, trying to ignore the way Dorian’s grip on his hands feels as though it’s about to sever a finger or two.

“See?” he offers with a weak smile once they’re both safely up. Dorian, still catching his breath from the climb, returns a glare.

He settles in beside Mahanon, just far enough away that to bridge the gap between them would have to be a conscious move. The Inquisitor sits back, bracing himself on his hands thrown lazily behind him.

They don’t speak. He had not, prior to this moment, known that silence could be so pointedly aggressive.

“You’re alright?” with a stiff formality, is all Dorian says.

“I’ve said I am,” Lavellan replies as evenly as he can.

“And you’ve never lied about such things before.” He can hear the sneer on Dorian’s face, and a flash of annoyance passes through him.

“If I have, isn’t it my business?”

“You know, some people believe trust to be the cornerstone of a good relationship,” Dorian quips. “Novel idea, that, isn’t it?”

“Do those people say anything about prying?” He nearly winces as soon as the words have left him. “Sorry. I- Sorry.”

A mess. This is a mess. He rakes a hand down his face, taking in another slow, steadying breath of cool air. He can feel Dorian’s eyes on him, is too afraid of the expression he might find there to glance over. The two of them sit in silence for what feels like an eternity, whispers lashing at his mind even against the wind. Then, finally, the other man clears his throat.

“I… do want to help you, you realize.” He’s speaking more slowly than is usual, and Lavellan can tell, with a rush of mixed gratitude and guilt, that he’s choosing his words carefully. “I apologize if that’s not welcome, but I do-” He seems almost to choke on the next few words before getting them out- “care about you. Considerably.”

Lavellan determinedly watches his own feet and hopes that the sudden strained tightness in his throat doesn’t show.

“I may not approve of your decision, but to watch you suffer alone without question is not an enticing prospect.”

Silence again. Though this time, his own nagging guilt pushes him to break it.

“I shouldn’t have snapped,” he replies at last. “I’m sorry. It’s been-”

“A long day. So you’ve said.”

“I’m sorry.”

Dorian looks as though he’s about to reply, but Lavellan cuts him off before he has the chance to start.

“Don’t. I… care about you, too.” He runs a hand through his own hair in frustration, still refusing to meet Dorian’s eyes. “And I do trust you, and I shouldn’t take this out on you just because you’re here. I’m sorry.”

“You did bind yourself to an ancient elven goddess today,” Dorian points out. “I imagine a bit of surliness is to be expected.”

Lavellan’s lips tighten into a grim smile. Past the mountain caps, the sun has begun to dip low. Brilliant oranges have bled into muted violets, and the world seems both softer and more real below them. Soon the courtyard will be emptied of its revelers, and the recruits will hang up their gear for the night. The constant hum of life around him will die down to another whisper. He shivers, and though the wind has picked up and chilled in the dusk, it isn’t for the cold.

“It’s bad, then?”

He almost laughs.

“Not exactly,” he says haltingly. “It doesn’t hurt, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s just a bit loud in here.”

He tries to force a smile, but it dies on his face at the look of concern Dorian has fixed on him.

“Don’t worry,” he adds quickly. “I can handle it. I just need some time to get accustomed.”

Suddenly everything is warmer, and Mahanon glances down between them to see Dorian’s hand resting half atop his own. He isn’t alone. Not even in this, as much as it feels he should be. This, right now - the fading sky above and the faint sound of laughter from the courtyard far below cutting through the twilight and his fingers loosely twining with those of someone who feels overwhelmingly like safety - this is his. This is something the whispers can’t reach.

“And now you’re smiling,” “Don’t tell me I went to the trouble of risking my life on that railing for nothing - I don’t think I’d survive it.”

“I’m smiling because you did.”

That quiets them both again. Several moments pass in silence, but it’s the comfortable kind this time. It’s enough time for the sun to vanish entirely across the Frostbacks, the courtyard quieting below them as lamps flicker on in the buildings and towers. A cool, evening mist hangs in the air around them. Dorian’s voice breaks the trance.

“How exactly do you get down from here without splattering all over the ground?”

All good moments come to their end eventually, Lavellan supposes. He lets out a long breath and gives Dorian an apologetic half-smile.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to stay up here for the night,” he admits. His headache has all but dissipated, but not so much that he wants to brave that silence again.

“If you must,” Dorian concedes. “You’ll have to bring some blankets out, however. And it’ll have to be the balcony. I’m not rolling off the roof in the middle of the night, and neither are you.”

Lavellan’s eyes go wide. He can’t mean- He can’t. But there isn’t any trace of mockery in Dorian’s face, and his lazy hold on Mahanon’s hand hasn’t even twitched. _I love you_ , flashes fleetingly through his head, and it almost knocks him off the roof then and there.

“I’m not asking you to stay,” he stammers instead, because this is hardly the time and most definitely not the place.

Dorian waves one hand dismissively. “And leave you out here to stew in your angst all alone? Quite supportive of me. I’m glad to hear you’ve such a high opinion of me as a giver of support. Unless,” he adds with a smirk, “you’d _rather be alone_.”

Lavellan allows himself a small smile, and shakes his head. Stewing in his angst all alone has proven to be a bit overrated, after all.

“Dorian Pavus sleeping on the ground by choice?” he asks by way of an olive branch. “Don’t I feel special.”

“You should.” Dorian’s returning the smile now, trying to disguise it as a smirk. It isn’t working. “I’m on the roof of a tower. Me. You’re aware it’s freezing up here? Not to mention the horrible feeling that one of us will go tumbling to his death the moment the wind stops being friendly.”

Lavellan is surprised to find himself genuinely laughing, and lets his hand linger against Dorian’s as he picks a path back down the slope of the roof. When he stands, he slips the cloak off his own shoulders and drapes it across Dorian’s instead.

“I told you,” he repeats, “I won’t let you fall.”

“So long as you don’t fall, yourself.”

Lavellan pauses where he’s poised to lower himself back down and watches Dorian with a bemused half-smile.

“I’ll do my best,” he promises. And then, before he can stop it: “Ma sa’lath.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow in question, but if he wonders what it means, he doesn’t voice it.

“That’s all I can ask,” he says instead. And cast in the last of the sideways glow before the sun dips low beneath the mountains, he gives a careful smile and adds, “Amatus.”

The voices are still there, but they’re quieter. And when he catches the beginnings of a softer smile as he lets go and drops down to the balcony, the sound of his heart in his ears almost drowns them out. And it will pass - he knows it.

 

 


End file.
